“You feel that you have been abandoned here in the abbey, left to languish here, unnoticed and ultimately alone, for all your days. That is the worst, is it not?”
His perceptiveness astonished me. I had not consciously realized how much I missed the feeling of belonging that I had enjoyed when I was younger.
“Yes, Father. Can you forgive me, Father? Can you give me absolution and peace?”
“I can, but only after you have done penance. Meet me at sixth hour in the stables.”
“I will be there, Father. Thank you. Should I say any prayers?”
I could swear that he laughed to himself. “I will teach you to pray this afternoon.”
The air in the stables was cold, but ripe with animal and vegetable smells. Father Jerome was waiting for me. In his hand was a whip of braided leather. He ran his palm over its length as he watched me approach.
“Kneel before me, Sister Ursula.”
Puzzled but strangely pliant, I followed his instructions, my eyes cast down. The straw tickled my nostrils.
“Sister, the heart of sin is the feeling of separation from God. The remedy is total surrender to His will and a return to communion with Him. Do you understand?”
I nodded, though I hardly grasped what he was saying.
“No, you do not, not yet. But you will. Remove your habit.”
Once again, he shocked me. I looked up, into those azure eyes of his. “Surely, Father, this is not proper . . .”
“We are all born naked. The flesh is glorious, not shameful. Do as I say.”
He spoke with such authority that I could only believe and obey. Unknotting the cords around my waist, I pulled the bulky wool robe over my head, then folded it neatly and placed it beside me. Now I wore only my rough linen shift, my crucifix, and my wimple and veil. I shivered in the February chill. Yet at the same time my cheeks, my earlobes, my fingers and toes, all grew warm, pulsing with some inner heat. My breasts felt heavy; my tightening nipples scraped against the homespun fabric.
Father Jerome paced a circle around me. “How do you feel?” he asked me.
“Embarrassed,” I replied. “And strangely free.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied. “I will beat you now. Not as punishment for your sins, but to teach you to surrender. When you surrender, your sins will evaporate like dew in the morning sun.”
Before I could respond or even comprehend his words, he stepped behind me. He tore open my shift. There was cold air on my naked back, and then, the searing trail of his whip.
I cried out, in surprise as much as pain. He lashed me again. The leather bit into me, teeth of a wolf tearing at my flesh. Sharp, deep, prolonged: the pain echoed through me long after the leather left my skin.
At first, Father Jerome’s strokes were slow and measured. He gave me long moments to reflect on the way the pain flowed through me, ripples of anguish spreading from my back through all my limbs. Soon, though, he increased his pace, stalking back and forth behind me like a tiger, slashing at me with all his strength. I was panting and moaning under his assault; I could hear him panting, too.
“Live in the pain, Ursula. Revel in it. Welcome it. Let it wash through you. Let it drown you.”
His words were a chant, soothing and hypnotic. The sting and burning ebbed, transformed themselves to something quite different. Dimly, I realized that the familiar throbbing between my legs was more intense than ever. Each time the lash cut into me, something swelled inside, pulsing with a power that I did not understand.
“Give yourself to my lash. Release yourself. Let the pain release you, open you, free you.”
My breathing changed, became deep and regular. I sensed his rhythm, knew before the leather touched me where and when it would land. I felt his crystal eyes on me, stroking my bare flesh along with his whip. I heard his voice, all around me in the flame-tinged darkness behind my closed eyelids.
“Ursula,” he seemed to whisper. “Sweet sister, surrender. God. Blood. Peace. Power. Pain. Surrender. Now.”
Something tore through me like a whirlwind. That constant ache shattered into a million shards of pleasure. I heard my own voice, keening, as I shook in the gale that emanated from my own flesh. I felt the leather kiss of the whip again, each stroke a new convulsion of delight. I breathed a silent prayer of gratitude.
Moonlight streamed, glorious, into the chapel that night, as Father Jerome celebrated the Mass. The familiar Latin words of the liturgy, intoned in his strong and resonant voice, held new power for me. I thought that I understood the true nature of the Lamb of God.
I was pure and free, full of light again, as I knelt before the rail and received the Body of Christ between my lips. My back was raw and sore, but my spirit soared as never before with Hildegard’s melodies.
My master Jerome left the next morning, but the peace he brought me stayed for many weeks. I was kind to my sisters, meek and obedient, and took joy from the smallest things. I felt an urge to do service, and so with the convent’s permission, began to visit the sick and the destitute in the nearby village, bringing them material and spiritual comfort.
Mother Superior sensed the change in me, and we spoke about my final vows. We agreed that I would make them at Easter.
The days warmed and lengthened. The fields were green with fresh growth and sometimes one could see the purple bulk of the massif rising in the distance. My heart was light as I went about my work, anticipating the day when I would belong wholly to Christ. The village folk whispered about me, saying that I had the spirit of a saint. My pride was not completely vanquished. I felt sharp delight when I overheard such things.
The Master came again on Maundy Thursday. I was returning from the village with my empty basket, and found Sisters Madeleine and Louise huddled together in the herb garden. “What news, good sisters?” I asked.
“That strange priest, Father Jerome. He has come back. He has promised to stay and officiate at the Easter Mass.”
Something flared in me at this news, totally consuming my tranquility. I had to see him. Shame and excitement warred in me as I recalled my punishment in the stables. I understood that I wanted it again: the pain and the glory of surrender.
“Where is Father Jerome now?” I struggled to keep my voice calm and even, though my heart was beating so hard I could scarcely speak at all.
“In his cell in the visitors’ quarters, meditating. He asked that we not disturb him until Vespers.”
He was my Master. I should have obeyed, bowed to his wishes. But my need to see him, to look into those luminous eyes, was too great. I knocked softly on the rough plank door.
“Who is there?”
“It is I, Father.” My voice was so soft, he must have barely heard. “Sister Ursula.”
I half-expected him to send me away. Instead, he opened the door. I was astonished to see that his torso was bare, and crisscrossed with the raw stripes of a whip. “Come in, Sister,” he said shortly, and swung the door shut behind us.
Without being told, I knelt before him. “Father, bless me, for I have sinned.” He smiled a bit grimly, and raised me up.
“No, Sister, it is I who have sinned. I should not have come back to this convent.”
“It is Easter-tide, Father. You do us honor and service by spending it within our walls.”
“True. I came for Easter, because I heard that it was then you would seal your vows. I came to see you, one last time.”
My heart leaped in joy. My master had returned for me. He loved me. The traces of the lash on his chest were the badges of his love.
“Punish me then, Father, for I have tempted you. The Bible tells us that man’s flesh is weak, and susceptible to the wiles of women.”
Father Jerome laughed. There was a desperate edge in that laugh. “So, you would have me beat you again?”
“Yes, Father. Master. Teach me more of the joys of surrender.”
His eyes searched mine. I smiled up at him, modesty abandoned, burning with desire.
“Very we
ll, Sister Ursula. Remove your clothing. All your clothing.”
I did not mind baring my body for him. I reveled in the thought that he would find me beautiful. I hesitated, though, in removing my veil. Somehow, being bare-headed made me feel more naked than being bare-breasted.
“Stand by the cot, with your palms against the wall.” The stone was cool despite the April sunlight streaming through the slit-like window.
“Breathe,” he whispered, and then I felt once again the glorious bite of his whip.
This time, he concentrated his attack on my buttocks. He did not begin slowly as before, but immediately began to thrash me with all his strength. Each stroke sizzled like a lightning bolt, straight to my swelling loins.
“Oh, yes,” I moaned. “Beat me, Master. Teach me.”
I could sense his passion, and his agitation. His lashing hurt far more than the first one, and yet, I would have endured it for ever. Just as the throbbing in my sex rose to crescendo, however, he stopped. The whip clattered on the slate floor.
“I will teach you indeed, Sister, a new lesson,” he growled. He grabbed my hips roughly. Terror shot through me. My virginity was for God, not for man, not even for my Master.
As if he heard my thoughts, he laughed, mocking.
“Fear not, sweet Ursula. I will leave your maidenhood intact. You will consummate your vows a virgin still.”
He pulled my globes apart and without a moment’s hesitation, plunged his maleness into my bowels.
I thought I knew pain before. That was like a mild itch compared to this agony. I felt myself stretch to breaking as he worked his organ inside me. Blood trickled down my thighs from my torn flesh. The smell rose, hot and shameful, blood and excrement, as my Master plowed my rear hole again and again.
“This is the ultimate surrender, Ursula,” he growled. “Open yourself, your most hidden and secret self, to me. Receive me, honor me. Now, Ursula!”
I felt his member swell and burst within me, spattering my bowels with burning seed. Until that moment, I had felt nothing but the pain of his ripping violation. Yet when I sensed his climax, my own body convulsed in answer, muscles contracting to grip him and hold him within me.
Later, I lay with him on his pallet, aching inside and out. He stroked my cropped hair out of my eyes.
“I must leave, Ursula. Right away.”
“Do not forsake me, Master. I need you to teach me.”
“I am not the Master, Ursula. I am no more than His representative, and a poor one at that. I have given you my last lesson. I have nothing more to teach.”
He stood up and donned his robe, wincing as the rough fabric brushed over his welts. “You will never see me again. But I will always be with you. Remember what you have learned.”
I fell to my knees before him in tears, circling his knees with my arms. “Please, Master, do not go. Or if you must, leave me some token. A piece of your clothing. A lock of your hair.”
He looked down at me for a long moment. Then he sighed. Reaching into his bag, he extricated a short leather-sheathed knife. He removed his skullcap. I was astonished to see that his hair was a fiery red, the color of maples in autumn.
Roughly, with no concern for his own comfort, he hacked at his tonsure until he had a thick lock in his hand. He placed it in my palm and closed my fingers around it. “Here you are, girl. Keep it safe, and remember me.”
He slipped his feet into his boots, donned his wide-brimmed traveling hat, grabbed his bag, and was out of the door before I could even rise from my knees. Looking out of the narrow window, I saw him striding away.
As if in a dream, I dressed myself. The bells called me to chapel. Detached, but strangely at peace, I knelt on the stone with my sisters and asked the Lord to bless me.
On Easter morn, I made my final vows and became a bride of Christ. The sisters whispered together about the strange priest’s sudden departure. As far as I could tell, no one connected this event with me. We had no Mass, but we sang our hymns to the Risen One, songs so lovely they seemed to pierce my heart. There were tears in my eyes. Yet I had never felt such joy.
After my consecration, I wandered through my days in a kind of peaceful trance. I felt no shame and, strangely, little longing for my Master. He was with me, I knew.
My sisters sensed a change in me, though. I was as pliant and obedient as ever, but there was a new distance between me and them. The people in the hamlet sensed it too, though I still brought them bread from our ovens and apples from our orchard, still asked them for news of their children and their crops. I made them nervous, with my deep quiet and my bright eyes that seemed to look into their souls. I overheard no more discussions of my saintly spirit.
In May, the wasting fever broke out in their cottages. Many died, most especially, it seemed, in the houses that I had been wont to visit. There were whispers then, rumors of witchcraft and evil spells. I went about my work, strangely immune to the gossip and the danger.
Mother Superior called me to her. She asked me about incantations, potions, contracts with the Evil One. I smiled and told her I knew nothing of such things. Then she sent Sister Marie to produce the lock of red hair they had found pressed between the pages of my breviary.
The bishop came, all the way from Avignon, to try me as a sorceress. The inquisition was held in the chapel. The golden light of summer streamed through the narrow windows, lighting the concerned and frightened faces of my sisters. I found it difficult to concentrate on the proceedings; I wanted to walk barefoot in the newly green fields and rejoice in the sun.
Again and again the bishop questioned me about the lock of hair. I was silent. What could I say? I could not speak falsehoods, yet I would never betray my Master. The sisters stripped me in order to confirm that I was still virgin. They found me intact. However, the lingering traces of my last beating they denounced as the mark of Satan’s talons.
So it is that I came to this pyre, condemned for sorcery when all I sought was peace and service. I do not blame the villagers, the sisters, or the bishop who pronounced me guilty. My soul is clean of sin. My heart is full of love.
The flames lick at this vessel of flesh, reminding me of my Master’s lash. There is a smell of charred meat, now, but I ignore it, focusing instead on the flowers. I feel His eyes upon me, luminous and powerful, and I release everything to Him, knowing at last the full truth He was trying to teach me. I am incandescent with joy.
Like Christ Himself I am a bright torch of sacrifice, burning for my Master, and his.
Contented Clients
Kate Dominic
Andre was more than a little miffed. I’d been quite specific letting him know that the matronly outfit he’d designed for me was about as sexy as a burlap sack.
“I want to show boobs, dear,” I snapped, dumping the custom-made 1950s style housedress on top of the naked mannequin’s headless neck. “Mother’s ‘naughty little boys and girls’ need to be squirming in anticipation of a nice, comforting nipple to suck on, even before I turn them over my knees.”
“As Madame wishes,” Andre sniffed, his beautiful green eyes flashing with righteous indignation as he tossed his short blond curls. In a flash of dramatic pique that only a former runway model could master, he turned and swept up the yards of atrocious yellow floral print. He froze in mid-pirouette when my hand snaked out and gripped his slender, denim-covered butt cheek. Hard. I wasn’t sure what Andre’s problem was today. His costumes were usually exquisite. But I was in no mood for an artistic temper tantrum when I had clients scheduled for that scene in less than a week.
“Madame damn well wishes,” I said quietly. “And if Andre has a problem with that, perhaps Madame should call Andre’s sweet, smiling lover over to give dear little Andre an attitude adjustment.”
Andre looked nervously over his shoulder, his eyes locking on the large, bearded man hunched intently over the computer screen on the other side of the room. The only time I’d ever seen Bedford’s lips so much as curve upward was when h
e was paddling the bejeezus out of Andre’s ass. Bedford clicked on to a new screen, leaned back, and carefully stroked his chin. The latest design appeared on the web page he was updating, and Bedford nodded once, so slowly that the long, brown hair tied back at his neck barely moved over the flannel shirt covering his thickly muscled shoulders.
“That won’t be necessary,” Andre said primly, almost hiding a shiver as he carefully turned and set the discarded material onto a side table. He glanced once more in his bearish lover’s direction. “Shall Madame and I sit down at the other work station and discuss alternative design options?”
“The operative word being ‘sit,’ ” I snapped, releasing his ass-cheek. I managed to control my smile as Andre politely escorted me over to the computer, offering me a chair before he called up my profile with even more efficiency than usual. From the way his ass was twitching, I gathered that sweet, pouty little Andre’s entire snit had been staged purely to let Bedford know that he was hungry for a good, old-fashioned ass-warming. Despite Bedford’s apparent lack of attention, I had no doubt that he’d heard every word – and that a very sore and well-fucked Andre would be working standing up for the next couple of days.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been an unwitting prop in one of my friends’ private little scenes. I doubted it would be the last. I shook my head and bit back a grin as my voluptuous cyber model filled the screen and a nervous, eager-to-please Andre and I got back to designing the perfect costume for my stable of submissive little boys and girls.
Overall, I’d been quite pleased with PFA, Inc. Personal Fetish Attire had provided me with my first dominatrix outfits with almost off-the-rack speed – no mean feat, given my well-endowed size 2X proportions. As my clientele had grown, Andre and I had worked together to design some very chic leather teddies and harnesses that emphasized my Rubenesque curves for my hardcore “mistress” clients, as well as the flowing drapes of satin and lace that highlighted the ample padding so comforting to my naughty adult children. When I’d branched out into less traditional fetishes, PFA had quietly made some introductions – to other clients, for whom they then also supplied costumes. Several of my fantasy scenes had even been Bedford’s idea.
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